Lucky
by one-way-ride
Summary: She knew going to church on Sunday mornings instead of Saturday evenings was a bad idea, but...


_Down the road someone is practising scales,_  
 _The notes like little fishes vanish with a wink of tails,_  
 _Man's heart expands to tinker with his car_  
 _For this is Sunday morning, Fate's great bazaar;_  
 _Regard these means as ends, concentrate on this Now,_

 _And you may grow to music or drive beyond Hindhead anyhow,_  
 _Take corners on two wheels until you go so fast_  
 _That you can clutch a fringe or two of the windy past,_  
 _That you can abstract this day and make it to the week of time_  
 _A small eternity, a sonnet self-contained in rhyme._

 _But listen, up the road, something gulps, the church spire_  
 _Open its eight bells out, skulls' mouths which will not tire_  
 _To tell how there is no music or movement which secures_

 _Escape from the weekday time. Which deadens and endures._

* * *

 _Today (Sunday, 19 March)..._

She knew going to church on Sunday mornings instead of Saturday evenings was a bad idea...

...but she had a solid reason, she told herself. In fact, 99.9% of the reason resided in her field of vision right at that moment.

The other 0.1% was undoubtedly her bonnet-clad aunt beside her, whose gold-filled teeth were bared in a triumphant grin at her 'victory' in persuading (read: pestering) her stubborn, hotheaded niece to attend Sunday Mass each week. Little did she know how insignificant was her contribution to her goal.

* * *

 _Last Saturday (11 March)..._

 _"_ Lillian, Sunday is the _Sabbath_ day! Here-" Aunt Rose shoved some sort of thick blue document in her face. Lily squinted at the title. _Christian Community Bible,_ it read in an attractive curling font. "-it's one of the Ten Commandments, see here-" a garishly scarlet fingernail pointed at a space riddled with minute text. The text in question was rather illegible due to its proximity to Lily's face. "- _keep the Sabbath day holy._ You _do_ know what 'holy' means, don't you?"

"Yes, Aunt Rose." Redheaded, emerald-eyed, and fairly annoyed Lily Evans didn't have the energy to tell her aunt that 'Lily' wasn't short for anything and even that dumbbell Crabbe at school knew what 'holy' meant.

Lily loved Saturday Mass, when peace reigned at the Church of the Immaculate Conception as the sun set lazily on the horizon. However, for some reason, everyone (including her parents and Tuney) preferred the 'environment of being surrounded by the pleasant Catholic community', a phrase which here means 'a horde of noisy people greeting you and the corners of your mouth being forcefully wrenched up for the sake of courtesy'. **[Here's to the Snicket fans!]** Sundays were notoriously crowded and stifling, so after the age of five Lily accompanied her (far more sensible) Uncle Geoff, who was her only comrade in favour of Saturday.

"Lillian, at least try _one_ more Sunday. You're a _teenager_ now, and _supposed_ to be _mature._ Honestly, it won't _kill_ you. It didn't kill _me_ , and you're _named_ after me-"

Lily had had enough. (Rose was her middle name, so technically she wasn't named after you, so there. And for Joseph's sake, Aunty, lay off on the italics.)

" _One_ Sunday, Aunty. Then no more if I don't want to." _That was for sure._

Her aunt blinked owlishly at being interrupted in the middle of her tirade. "But honey-" she protested, then stopped, apparently deciding that this was the best offer she'd get. "All right, dear, go ahead if that's what you want."

 _That wasn't what I wanted. I don't want to go at all._

Lily grunted noncommittally.

* * *

 _Back to today..._

So here she was, wrapping a thin shawl tightly around her sundress to keep out the severe air conditioning, knowing that she would be attending Sunday morning Mass for the rest of her days.

Why, you might ask? Well, the very reason why most teenage girls do what they do. A boy.

This one wasn't just a boy. He was a _boy._

To be precise, the dark-haired altar server carrying the pole topped with a crucifix.

He looked about her age (sixteen) but she couldn't recall ever seeing him before. Of course, this was entirely possible since her school provided lessons on Christianity. Therefore, she didn't go for catechism classes like the rest of the Church's youth community and was not well acquainted with Catholics her age. It didn't help that the school was all-girls, so naturally her boy knowledge was painfully limited. (Except for the scattered whispers Lily heard through the gossip network, which she definitely did _not_ trust. She wasn't that stupid.)

Anyway, currently she was cursing the existence of the absurdly long, baggy white robes. But even then, she could make out his deliciously broad-but-not-too-broad shoulders. Hair: a jet-black mess, she guessed he'd broken quite a few combs in it throughout his lifetime. Eyes: a dark, mesmerizing swirl of gold and brown flecked with green near the pupil...hazel. And _spectacles_. He'd managed to pull off _spectacles._ Right then, Lily was willing to bet he'd look good if he donned Aunt Rose's flowered bonnet. A cocky smirk graced his face...and that was when she realized he was looking directly at her.

 _What should I do? He's_ looking _at me._

She did the only thing she knew how to do. Lily stared back defiantly without any sign of embarassment on her face other than a light shade of pink.

The boy in question was impressed. James Potter shot the pretty, different, un-giggly redhead a subtle wink as he passed her pew when the Mass ended, and got rid of the (in his opinion) absurdly long, baggy white robes as quickly as he could.

* * *

 _Some ten years later..._

Lily Potter rolled her eyes exasperatedly at her six-year old son with the untamable hair who absolutely _refused_ to go to church on Sundays.

"Trust me, Harry. You just might get lucky on Sundays. Your father, for instance, had _astounding_ luck one Sunday morning...

 **The End.**

 **My second fanfic in just as many days. Reviews are Chocolate Frogs!**


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